


An Echo of Glory

by severalkittens



Series: A Song That I Heard [2]
Category: Men's Football RPF
Genre: Blood and Injury, M/M, Mostly fluff though
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-03
Updated: 2019-06-13
Packaged: 2020-04-07 10:51:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 12,310
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19083538
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/severalkittens/pseuds/severalkittens
Summary: “After the game tomorrow,” mumbles Jan. “Let me take care of you this time.”“Ok,” Paulo breaths, “ok.”“Wanna make you-“ Jan trails off incoherently, sleep dangerously close to claiming him. He listens to Paulo take a few more breaths.“Go to sleep, Jan,” Paulo whispers. By the time Paulo disconnects the call with a click, Jan’s already fast asleep.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I have a few works for these guys planned, so stay tuned if you’d like to join me in reliving some of the finer moments of our CL campaign. 
> 
> This one will be two chapters long and takes place immediately after “What a feeling, what a night”

Jan wakes up nestled under a pile of comforters, sun streaming in his window. There’s a glass of water and two ibuprofen on his bedside table he doesn’t remember leaving. He’s warm, fuzzy and totally disoriented in that way only a toe-curling orgasm and eleven hours of deep sleep can bring. He stretches, and lets the haze of sleep and satisfaction start to recede. The feelings from the previous night are starting to crawl back in- the lowest of lows when Sterling put the ball in the back of the net, the highest of highs when it had been disallowed, the ringing in his ears from the celebrations, the slight pounding in his head from the three beers he’d consumed. He can feel the tiredness in his legs from the game, the ache a little bit sharper around his glutes, in between his cheeks, almost like someone had-

Suddenly the memories of the rest of last night come flooding back in, Paulo, that hand in the back of his hair, _the pool table_. Jan sits straight up, sending a mess of pillows tumbling to the floor.

_That had to be a dream. I must have taken a knock to the glute during the game, I must have played through it on adrenaline._

But the memory of Paulo’s fingers in his hair, under his waistband, in between his legs is too strong. He scrambles out of bed and stands in front if the mirror, hoping to find a well-rested, undisturbed reflection. Of course that’s not going to happen. His hair is mussed, sticking up at weird angles all over his head. _God, he really needs a hair cut._ He trails his fingertips over his collarbone where Paulo left a litter of marks, and his heart does a weird little thing in his chest. He’s so not dealing with that. 

The memory of Paulo’s lips might be making him _feel things,_ but Jan is a man of action. There are a couple practical matters he needs to attend to. He has to focus on recovery for their next game against city, which is only three days away. And he _has_ to do something about how he left the pool table. So he sets about his day, folding up all the images and sensations of the previous night and tucks them in next to the pulsing joy he’d felt when “VAR - No Goal - Offside” had flashed up on the jumbo screen.

He feeds himself and mindlessly clears away most of the remnants of the party. He does a quick hour on his stationary bike and foam rolls his legs, just like Pochettino has instructed them. Now there’s only one thing left- he has to handle the pool table. 

Jan’s sitting in his study with the shade down, lights out, face illuminated only by the glow of the computer. His fingers rest on the keys, half-way through typing a sentence.

_How to get stains out of_

He stares at the blinking cursor. Should he say stains? There are all different kinds of stains. He imagines, for instance, that red wine is much harder to clean than, say, sprite. And he doesn’t want to make it worse. He rubs a hand over his face. 

It physically pains him to hit the backspace key, even more so to type out _cumstain_ and tap the return key _,_ but this is definitely the kind of scenario where he wants to be precise. As soon as the results flash onto the screen, he panics and closes the entire browser window.

_“What do you need two of them for anyway?”_ he hears Paulo say in his head. He sighs. Maybe there’s something to that.

_London junk removal,_ Jan carefully types into the browser.

But then his brain supplies him with a vision of two middle-aged man in Arsenal kits picking up his defiled table. He imagines them looking at the stain, then looking at Jan, watching him flush in embarrassment. He imagines the headlines the next day-

_Spurs star caught in STICKY situation_

No, absolutely not. He’s probably better off reupholstering it, or just trying to wash it out and hoping for the best. He wishes there was someone he could ask. He’s not sure if he knows anyone who’d know the answer. 

_Dries probably knows,_ whispers a voice in the back of Jan’s mind. And it’s true, Dries Mertens probably does know. Plus, he’s in town, because Napoli are playing Arsenal in the Europa League. But as confident as he is in Dries’ ability to remove weird stains, he’s equally sure it would result in a lengthy callout on the Belgium squad’s whatsapp. He’d absolutely never hear the end of it. 

_If you need anything, you call me,_ Paulo had said. Right after he’d withdrawn his fingers from-

Jan shakes his head, stopping the thought right there. He briefly wonders if Paulo even knows how to get out stains. It’s beside the point, because he’s _not_ calling Paulo. He’s barely processed what happened the previous night, let alone what he’s going to do the next time he sees the big man.

Jan decides he’ll have to call Toby. Toby’s certainly never removed questionable stains from a pool table, but the defender would bury a body for him. Surely this isn’t as bad.

He dials Toby’s number and presses call. Toby answers on the first ring.

“Jan, what’s up?” 

“Hey, listen, you know how to get stains out of things?” He tries not to blush, even though Toby can’t see him. 

“I’m alright, what’ve you got?”

Jan swallows. “Someone spilled a White Russian on my pool table last night,” he improvises, hoping Toby didn’t notice his moment of hesitation.

“A White Russian? And you didn’t offer me one?” 

“Uh,” Jan shrugs to himself, trying to drum up an answer before he realizes Toby’s joking.

“Anyway that shouldn’t be too bad to take care of. I have some stuff I can bring over,” he continues.

“No!” yells Jan, cutting him off. “I can- I’ll just buy it. I’ll just run out to the store and get it. What is it?”

“Don’t worry about it, man, I’m sure I owe you one, from saving my ass. I’ll come by later this afternoon.”

The phone clicks, and Jan rests his forehead heavily in his hand. He probably should have seen this coming. 

 

 

Jan spends the rest of the morning walking up and down the basement stairs carrying various cleaning products. Maybe if he just dabs it with a wet paper towel, it’ll be a little less suspicious. Maybe he should use some seltzer? Windex? Nail polish remover? 

On his fifth trip back up to the kitchen, he grabs a can of Coke. Maybe he can pour something darker over it, and Toby won’t even notice. He looks down at the can. It’s one of the special edition ones that sports his own face. Does he always look so stern? He rolls his eyes at himself, and sets that aside too. 

Maybe he should just call someone and get it reupholstered, before Toby gets there. Then he can spill a white Russian on it himself, and Toby won’t be any the wiser. Maybe he doesn’t need to get it reupholstered at all- he can just buy some milk, spill it over the stain, and hope for the best.

He’s got his jacket on and car keys in his hand before he realizes he probably doesn’t have time. He shakes off his jacket in frustration. Maybe he’ll pack his bags and transfer to China. He’ll get to play along side Mousa, and most importantly, he’ll be thousands of miles away when Toby shows up and sees the stain. 

He sits back on his couch, covering his eyes with his hands. Why did they have to do it on the pool table anyway? Why couldn’t he have dragged Paulo to the couch, or up to his bed? Why did Jan even let it happen at all? He’d always kept strict boundaries between his work life and his love life. He’s not entirely sure what it was about Paulo that finally made him cross the line. And he has absolutely no idea what he’s going to say when he sees the man in training tomorrow. Not when Paulo knows what Jan tastes like, what his whimpers sound like, and exactly how hard he clenches when he comes. 

Jan’s still sitting on the couch wondering what the hell he’s done when Toby rings the doorbell an hour later. _Be normal,_ he tells himself. _Someone had a bit too much fun, spilled a drink. You definitely did not defile your own pool table with your teammate’s fingers up your ass._

“Hi Toby,” he says, stepping aside to let Toby into his foyer. He has a big grocery bag full of products. _Please let him actually know what he’s doing,_ Jan thinks. 

“Basement?” says Toby, walking past him to the basement door. Jan gulps.

Toby stands in front of his pool tables for what seems like several lifetimes to Jan, silently glancing back and forth between them. Jan’s always admired Toby’s stoic, silent approach to life, but right now, he just wishes Toby would say something, anything to put Jan out of his misery. Eventually Toby turns to look at Jan, with eyes narrowed.

“Jan,” he says delicately. “I don’t know how to say this but,”

Jan’s face goes beet red as Toby picks over his words. He knows exactly what’s coming.

“Look, I know that’s not a white Russian,” he says.

“I-“ mumbles Jan. Toby’s still staring at him.

“There was no milk in your house last night,” he continues. Jan coughs weakly.

“And uh, I wasn’t born yesterday, you know. So…” Toby shrugs, and lets the implication hang in the air. Jan doesn’t say anything. He’s sure the flush in his cheeks is all the answer Toby needs.

“Jan, who in the world..?” he doesn’t even finish his question. 

“Not Dele and Dier, I saw them leave, so, that would leave..” He fixes Jan with an accusatory look. Jan says nothing.

“Jan, why are you blushing like that? What the hell happened?”

“Gazzaniga,” murmurs Jan, feeling his face flush even darker.

“Gazzaniga?” Toby shrieks, hands in his sculpted hair. “Gazzaniga came on your pool table?!” Jan can count on one hand the times he’s seen Toby lose composure like this. At some later date, Jan will have to remember to be amused at the reaction.

“No,” says Jan. “Gazzaniga made _me_ -” 

“Jan.” Toby’s eyes go wide. He glances at the stain on the table and his cheeks go darker than Jan’s.

“I know, I know, look, can we please not talk about it?”

“But-“

“Toby,” Jan pleads.

“Fine.”

Toby’s got his arms folded across his chest, disapproving. Jan wishes he knew what to do with his hands. He runs them through his hair, hooks them in his belt loops, eventually shoves them into his back pockets, shuffling his feet.

“What do I do?” He breaks eye contact with Toby, all too aware of the flush rising in his cheeks.

“I think you should get rid of the table,” he says, running a hand along the edge.

“What?! Won’t it wash out?”

“It might,” Toby considers. “But do you really want to have to look at the table for the rest of your life and remember-“ 

Toby looks at Jan and Jan cocks an eyebrow at him, daring him to continue. Toby doesn’t.

“More than I want to stare at one pool table and remember what happened to my other one,” Jan counters. 

“What do you even need two of these for anyway?”

“In case I have company. I don’t know, because!” He throws his hands up in the air. "It came in handy last night, yeah?” he doesn’t mean to snap. But as embarrassed as he is, he’s getting tired of the silent judgment seeping out of Toby’s expression. Like half the world wouldn’t cut off a limb to have Paulo Gazzaniga bend them over a table.

“Whatever. Fine,” Toby mutters. “We can get it out. But I am so not touching that.” 

They spend the rest of the afternoon in near silence. Toby passes Jan different cleaning products, stopping every so often to bark out terse instructions. Jan scrubs and scrubs, and eventually, the stain starts to ease, along with some of the shame that’s been curling in Jan’s chest.

“You seem mad,” mumbles Jan eventually, without looking up from where he’s scrubbing the table.

“No,” says Toby gently. “I just-“ He falls back into silence for a long time. Jan works the stain harder.

“You’re my partner,” Toby says.

“Jealous?” says Jan lightly, looking back at Toby.

“What? Jan, no.” Toby laughs a little and the tension in the room finally dissipates. Jan returns to his scrubbing. “I just don’t want you to get hurt.”

Jan’s glad his head is turned, so Toby can’t see the way the corners of his mouth have turned up in the tiniest of smiles, or the dampness that’s gathered at the corner of his eye. _It’s just a bit of basement dust,_ he tells himself.

Finally, Toby squints at the table and nods. “I think that’s ok,” he says. “You’ve managed to get most of it out. I don’t think anyone will notice.”

Jan breaths a sigh of relief. 

“Eh, the texture-“ Toby continues, cocking his head.

“Toby,” says Jan, warningly. 

“Really, I’m pretty sure no one will notice,” he corrects.

“Except for me,” says Jan.

“And me,” Toby looks thoughtful for a second, then smirks. “And Paulo.”

“Hey, fuck off.” Jan smacks him across the shoulder with the rag.

“Oi, careful,” says Toby, but he’s laughing. 

Toby leaves as quickly and silently as he arrived, leaving Jan just standing next to the table, staring. It _is_ better, he thinks. If he looks carefully, he can still see a bit of discoloration. But if he doesn’t, he can just forget about the whole thing. 

He thinks about seeing Paulo at training tomorrow and decides that’s actually a pretty good approach. He’s just going to pretend like it never happened. Sure, Paulo had made Jan feel things he hadn’t felt in years. Sure, Paulo had told Jan to call him any time he needed anything. But he can’t shake the feeling that it was all too good to be true. That it was just a one-time thing- a magical moment ignited by the passion of the victory, the high of the win, the brazenness of the alcohol.

Jan’s tried to keep busy, tried not to overthink it. But if he’s honest with himself, he sort of expected Paulo to text him today, just to check in, see how he was doing. As the day winds down, and more time passes without that text, the worse Jan feels.

So when he turns out his light that night, he very carefully does not think of Paulo’s hands in his hair, or his teeth biting into his skin, the sharp sting of his hand, or the girth of his fingers pressing into him. He lies there on his side, wondering why he can’t fall asleep, until he realizes he’s biting his cheek, his jaw is clenched, and his eyes are squeezed shut. _Go to sleep,_ he tells himself, _you’ll know once you see him in training tomorrow._ He breathes deeply, willing his body to relax, counting slowly to ten, eleven, twelve… He’s fast asleep by the time he hits seventeen.

 

 

Jan’s scheduled for an active recovery day. He quickly realizes Paulo won’t even be there- he’ll be outside working on goalkeeping drills with the other shot stoppers. He’s not totally sure if that’s better or worse. On one hand, he gets to pedal his heart out on the stationary bike, focus on the calming voice of the yoga lady, and try his very hardest not to think about the fact that he and Paulo are under the same roof. But on the other, Paulo could be anywhere. He could walk by at any minute. He could be lurking around any corner, ready to pull him into some closet and blow his mind. Or worse, he could walk by with ice blue eyes focused straight ahead, like nothing happened at all.

In the end, he only sees Paulo once. It’s when he’s sitting in the canteen with Toby, Christian and Eric eating his food. He catches a tall, dark head of hair out of the corner of his eye. _Turn and wave, Jan,_ he thinks to himself. 

He wags his hand at Paulo in a manner that would make Dele proud. Paulo, cool as ever, nods briefly and flashes his 1000-watt smile. When he returns Paulo’s smile, Jan manages to only dribble a tiny bit of water down his chin.

_It’s fine_ , he tells himself. _There’s no way Paulo saw that from here._ But then he looks back at Toby, who looks like he’s about to burst out laughing. Jan shoots him a death glare. 

He pats himself on the back as he walks out of training. Everything is fine. His body felt good in the recovery session. No knocks from the game, no adverse effects from what he’d gotten up to after _._

A small, foolish part of Jan wishes Paulo would have come to talk to him at lunch. He thought Paulo might have given him some indication that it was real, or at least an acknowledgment that something between them had changed. But instead he’d just been distant and professional. At least he hadn’t embarrassed himself too much in front of Paulo, and at least he’d only embarrassed himself a little in front of Toby. And now that he knows, Jan can do professional, too.

_It’s going to work,_ he thinks. _Everything is going to be fine._

 

 

It’s much later when he realizes he’s dead wrong. Jan brings his dinner downstairs to the basement. He’s halfway through binging _The Break_ on Netflix _,_ and he wants to keep watching on his big screen while he eats. It helps him to keep his French fresh, so he won’t embarrass himself in front of Sissoko and Aurier. They’re always laughing at his very Belgian french, teasing him, calling him names.

He’s on his third episode when he catches his eyes wandering over to the pool tables, and his mind wandering back to the events of the other night. He snaps his eyes back to the screen as fast as he can. _Stop it, Jan,_ he thinks. _It didn’t happen._

There’s a tingle in his cheek where he pressed his face into the felt of the pool table that says otherwise. He tries his hardest to focus on the TV screen, on the conversation the detective is having with his daughter. But he’s only getting every other sentence, and he has no idea what they’re even talking about anymore. 

He turns off the TV, grabs the box of tissues from the coffee table, and slips a hand underneath the waistband of his joggers. He’s already half-hard. Maybe he can just close his eyes, ignore the pool table mocking him from across the room, and get off quickly, matter-of-factly, same way he always does. 

He forces his mind to stay blissfully blank as he strokes himself to full hardness, totally focused on the movement of his hand, up and down, up and down. Aroused, but frustratingly not getting any closer. The tip of his cock dragging across the inside of his joggers brings him nowhere near to the heights he’d reached with Paulo holding him down. With Paulo’s big, warm hand wrapped around his erection. Paulo’s fingers gripping his ass. Jan’s breath hitches, and an ache starts to build in between his legs.

He’s still sitting on the couch alone, clutching a tissue in his free hand, but in his mind he’s bent over the table. Paulo, pushing his hips into the hard wooden corner. Jan’s soft skin rubbing across the felt. Paulo, sliding into Jan and pressing, pressing, pressing. Jan’s right on the edge. Paulo’s hands are in his hair. _If you need anything, you call me._

“Paulo,” Jan breaths, spilling into the tissue. He sits there for a moment, trying to steady his breathing. When he finally opens his eyes, they go straight to the pool table. _This is all your fault,_ he thinks.

That’s it. He’s got to get rid of the table.

 

 

He puts it up on eBay before he goes to bed. Paulo was right, he doesn’t need two pool tables. Toby was right, he doesn’t need to look at the pool table and remember what happened that night _. Once it’s sold, everything will be back to normal,_ he tells himself as he falls asleep.

The next morning, the whole first team practices together. Suddenly he’s face-to-face with Paulo in the locker room. It’s all he can do to shove his hand out for their customary shake. 

“Morning, Jan,” says Paulo, with a twinkle in his beautiful, beautiful eyes. He squeezes Jan’s hand. _You made me come,_ thinks Jan, flushing.

Instead he says, “Morning, Paulo.” His voice catches embarrassingly on Paulo’s name. Once Paulo’s gone, he rests his forehead against the cool metal of the locker. _Once it’s sold, everything will be back to normal,_ he repeats.

Jan tries his best to ignore Paulo during training. He’s been around for long enough that he’s not too bad at compartmentalizing. He only slips up once or twice, sliding a finger under his collar that’s suddenly too tight after Paulo barks out instructions. Turning away to adjust the front of his shorts after they get all tangled up when Jan attempts a header on goal. He pretends he doesn’t see Toby’s accusing stare. 

But the worst is yet to come. Jan’s sitting at lunch with Toby and Eric Dier, vaguely pleased with himself for his not-too-distracted performance that morning, when suddenly someone’s calling his name.

“Jan!” It’s Lamela. 

“Coco,” he returns.

“You’re selling one of your pool tables?” 

Jan spits out an entire mouthful of food into his lap. “I- what?” he forces out. 

“I saw it on eBay,” he says, sliding into a chair across from Jan.

“It wasn’t me?” Jan means it to sound reasonable, nonchalant but it comes out like a pitiful question.Toby cocks a perfectly groomed eyebrow at him.

“I bought that grill from you last year,” Erik says, rolling his eyes. “I know your eBay name.”

“Well you don’t want mine. Honestly, it’s not very good. You know, honestly, I might not even sell it. I might just call the junkers. Yeah, honestly best not to buy it. It’s not worth it. I’ll just-“

“Look, I need a table so I can practice. Ever since Gazza destroyed me, I’ve been looking.” He nods at a point past Jan’s shoulder. _Oh no,_ thinks Jan. _Please._ He turns, and sure enough, Paulo is sauntering toward them with a wide grin.

“What’s this?” asks Paulo, sliding in next to Erik.

“Jan’s put one of his pool tables up on eBay, but he clearly doesn’t want to sell it to me. Now he’s saying he’s just going to junk it,” says Erik conversationally, as though it’s nothing. Jan can feel Paulo’s eyes on him, and he prays for the floor to open up and swallow him on the spot.

“Old table, not worth the hassle,” Jan mumbles.

“Jan, why would you pay for junkers when Lamela’s just offered to buy it off you?” says Dier around a mouth full of food. It’s the first time he’s opened his mouth since sitting down at the table. He could kill Eric Dier.

“Yeah Jan, why?” says Lamela, forcefully cutting into a piece of chicken. Jan catches Toby’s eye, finds it’s full of pity even though he’s clearly having a hard time holding back his laughter.

“But surely Jan wouldn’t make a friend pay for a table. Surely he’ll just give it to you,” says Paulo. He’s using the deep, smooth one Jan can’t imagine saying no to. And he’s looking at Jan, eyes wide, beautiful and inscrutable. Jan stares, trapped in their hypnotizing, turquoise depths.

“Y-yeah,” he hears himself stutter, finally dragging his eyes away from Paulo’s to stare at the food on his plate. “I guess you can just-“

“Thanks, mate,” says Lamela, looking a bit surprised and confused. He looks back and forth between Jan and Paulo like he’s not even sure who to thank. Jan just knows Toby’s got a disapproving look on his face. He doesn’t meet his eye to find out.

“I’m doing this for me,” says Paulo. “I need better opponents, and you’re not up to scratch.” He elbows Lamela gently in the rib.

Jan’s competitive streak finally flares up at that. “I still think I could take you,” he says. It comes out a bit higher pitched than he would have liked. He’s a bit shocked he said it- the first direct reference either of them have made to _that night._

“I’m not so sure you can take me,” says Paulo, voice alarmingly soft. There’s a look in his eye that Jan can’t comprehend- is it hurt? desire? just a challenge? Any which way, it makes Jan’s entire stomach turn over. He stays silent and keeps his eyes fixed on his food for the rest of lunch.

 

 

Jan carefully avoids Paulo for the rest of the week. He hurries out of practice every day, and gracefully begs off any social situations. Toby makes extra time for him, which helps. He’s always known when Jan needs company without him having to ask. It’s only hard when he’s alone, at night, hand working between his legs. Paulo always slips in at the last second, whispering, “ _If you need anything, you call me.”_ Jan tries not to think about all the ways Paulo could be satisfying his needs. 

Lamela picks up the pool table after they lose 1-0 in their third game against City. Jan’s sharing a beer with Toby on the patio when he comes, and they’re resolutely not talking about things. He waits with bated breath as Erik examines the table, refuses to meet Toby’s eye. He exhales as Lamela finally approves without a second glance at _that spot,_ and directs the movers to carry it out of Jan’s basement. 

“At least let me give you a couple hundred for this,” says Lamela. 

“No, really, you don’t-“ Jan starts.

“Sure, he’ll take it,” Toby cuts in. Jan sends him a grateful look while Lamela takes out his wallet and starts to peel off bills from his roll.

 

 

A few days later, he picks up a knock against Brighton. It’s easier, because now he gets to rest, gets to spend time in rehab, doesn’t have to see Paulo’s bright blue eyes and mischievous smile. He’s going to be fit for Ajax, too, so no harm done, really. But whenever he meets Paulo’s eyes across the room, he can’t fight off that lingering feeling of regret. Like he’d had something special, but only for that one, fleeting moment. He keeps waiting for Paulo to do something, say something, anything to recapture that feeling. But Paulo stays silent, distant, frustratingly handsome.

And Jan's fine, everything's fine, until the night before Ajax. It's late, and Jan can’t sleep. Ajax is _his_ club. It’s where he grew up, where he faced the best times of his life, and some of the worst. He can’t see the Ajax crest without feeling a pull in his heart. He can’t play against them without- well, he doesn’t know. It’s never happened before, and even though he’s talked to Pochettino about the mental side, it still feels wrong. Jan’s not ready, and he’s not sure he ever will be.

After midnight, after Jan’s second hour staring at his ceiling, Paulo’s words come back to him. _If you need anything, you call me._ He gets his phone out, hovers his thumb over Paulo’s number. He hesitates for several long minutes, wondering if this is really the best idea. In the end, it’s late, and Jan needs comfort. Maybe his thumb twitches, maybe it’s intentional, but either way he hits dial.

He instantly panics, almost dropping his phone, but Paulo picks up on the first ring. Jan holds his breath. Now that he’s got Paulo on the line, he has no idea what to say. He can hear Paulo breathing, and for a while, he just listens, counting his breaths. Jan’s about to count Paulo’s fifteenth exhale when he speaks instead.

“What do you need?” Paulo’s voice is so quiet, Jan thinks he imagined it for a minute. He waits a few more breaths before responding.

“I can’t sleep,” says Jan.

“Ah, Ajax,” says Paulo. “Your former club.”

Jan hums, and they fall back into silence.

“Did I wake you up?” asks Jan.

“No,” says Paulo.

After several more long minutes, Paulo clears his throat.

“You got rid of the table,” he says. He sounds disappointed, slightly pained even, and Jan suddenly feels guilty.

“I did, I-“ Jan doesn’t really know why, suddenly, with Paulo here on the line. He stops.

“Did I push you into it? Did you not want-” he trails off, sounding sadder than Jan could have ever imagined.

“No, I thought- You made me-“ he breaks off for a second. “on the pool table.” It’s ridiculous he can’t even say it out loud. Paulo chuckles softly on the other end of the line.

“I was embarrassed. I thought maybe, in the moment- I thought you’d just want to forget about it.”

“I don’t,” whispers Paulo. 

“You don’t?” says Jan, breathless.

“No,” says Paulo. “Do you? Want to forget about it?”

“I called you, didn’t I?”

“I can’t stop thinking about it. The way you felt,“ Paulo exhales, “I want-” Jan hears a shuffle of movement on the other end of the line.

Jan’s smiling into the phone, he can’t help himself.

“Ah, but game tomorrow,” groans Paulo. “You need help getting to sleep.”

“You are helping,” says Jan. And it’s true. Listening to Paulo’s steady breath is lulling him into a daze. His eyelids are starting to drop, and he’s getting bolder in his tiredness.

“Good,” says Paulo. His warm, rumbly voice is back. Jan could listen to that voice forever.

“Paulo, listen,” Jan yawns. “I didn’t mean to make you feel like- like I didn’t want it. Because I do. I want you so bad.” It feels good to admit, and something eases in Jan’s chest. 

Paulo breaths in, out, in, out. Jan matches his breaths, eyes drooping lower.

“After the game tomorrow,” mumbles Jan. “Let me take care of you this time.”

“Ok,” Paulo breaths, “ok.”

“Wanna make you-“ Jan trails off incoherently, sleep dangerously close to claiming him. He listens to Paulo take a few more breaths.

“Go to sleep, Jan,” Paulo whispers. By the time Paulo disconnects the call with a click, Jan’s already fast asleep.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I describe the injury pretty graphically in here. If you’d rather not read about it, there's a lot else, so I strongly suggest you skip a few paragraphs in the middle. You can ctrl-f for “What’s happening? Have we equalized?” Everything after that will be blood-free.

For the first time in a few weeks (since _that_ night, if he’s being extra honest), Jan gets a full eight hours of sleep. It’s a bit on the light side for a professional athlete, but he at least doesn’t have to drag himself out of bed. There’s even a spring in his step as he goes about his morning routine.

His thoughts are full of Paulo- the way his voice had filtered through Jan’s receiver in a soft whisper, the way Paulo’s lips will touch his after the game if Jan plays his cards exactly right. He can’t help the little smile that makes its way onto his face, or the disbelieving shake of his head when he thinks of Paulo saying, “I can’t stop thinking about it,” voice gravelly with arousal. He even has to fight the urge to do a little skip every few steps.

He’s half way through his bowl of oatmeal, yogurt and peaches before he remembers to be nervous about Ajax.

_Oh god,_ he thinks, suddenly, letting his spoon fall back into the bowl. _Ajax._

He picks up his phone and dials Toby.

“What are we going to do about Neres?” It comes out in a rush, before Toby can even greet him. 

“Jan, this is the fourth time we’ve had this conversation. We’re fine,” Toby says.

“But what if he-“

“Jan,” 

“And what about van de-“

“Jan,” Toby says, raising his voice. “Take a deep breath.”

“It’s Ajax, Toby,” he says, in way of an explanation. Jan can tell Toby’s exasperated with him, but he doesn’t care.

“I know. Believe me, I know, just,” he sighs. “Look,” 

Jan waits patiently on the end of the line while Toby searches for the right words.

“We’ll do what we’ve always done,” he says eventually. “And we’ll get what we’ve always gotten. We’re up to the task, Jan.” It’s true, but it still doesn’t help Jan relax.

“I don’t like playing against them,” Jan says. 

He takes Toby’s silence on the other end of the line as an agreement. 

Eventually, he sighs. “I have to go, Jan. Read a book. Play Call of Duty. Or, I don’t know, do whatever you usually do before games.”

“Fine,” Jan huffs.

“Take care.” Toby hangs up with a click, before Jan has a chance to respond.

Jan’s not sure if Toby made him feel better or worst. He briefly considers calling Paulo again, then decides better of it. He can’t afford to be distracted now, and two calls in twenty four hours is a lot. Especially after several weeks of minimal contact. 

Still, his thumb hovers over Paulo’s name in his recent calls for a split second, before he shuts his phone and sets about cleaning up the remnants of his breakfast. Yes, he’s definitely better off waiting for after the game.

Jan still has several hours to kill, so he ends up taking Toby’s advice. He sits on his patio with a glass of lemon water and a book. It’s pleasant, even though he’s read the same line about thirty times. At least he’s trying.

His eyes scroll across line after line, but Jan can’t stop worrying about how they’re going to minimize Ajax’ threat down the wings, or how he and Toby are going to have to step up their attacking on set pieces to account for missing Sonny and Harry. 

At one point, he actually gets out his phone again and dials Toby.

“What?” Toby says.

“What if they play Ziyech in a-“

“ _Jan._ ” Toby’s frustrated voice blows his phone speaker a little bit. “Stop.”

“Ok,” he says, meekly. “Sorry.”

“I’ll see you in a few hours, yeah?” says Toby.

“Yeah, sure.”

“I suppose it could be worse,” Toby sighs. “You could be calling me about Gazzaniga and your pool table again.” 

Jan spits out lemon water all over his shirt.

 

 

Jan somehow makes it through the rest of the day, even though he’s no calmer than he was on the phone with Toby. He makes it through the warm up, through Pochettino’s last minute instructions, and now he’s shuffling from foot to foot in the tunnel. He’s fist-bumped Dier. He’s done his hand shake with Sonny. But everything feels wrong. It feels backwards, lining up next to Ajax with some other badge on his chest.

He glances at Toby, who’s nervously fingering the triple-x tattoo on the back of his arm. For all his huffiness earlier, the emotion is written all over his face. Jan gives a slight nod of acknowledgement.

Nostalgia prickles behind his eyes. He chews on his lip, glancing away from the mess of black and gold jerseys. Surely, surely he’s not going to cry-

A firm hand closes on the back of his neck, kneads the tense muscles there. 

“Super Jan,” says Paulo, r rolling off his tongue, slipping delicately between his lips. He turns, and he’s almost blinded by Paulo’s smile. “You’ll be brilliant.”

He nods in response, corners of his lips just barely twitching into a smile.

It helps, though because Jan walks on to the field thinking, _I’m Super Jan, and I’ll be brilliant._

 

 

Jan’s not brilliant, though, not by any stretch of the imagination. It’s taking him forever to settle into the game. His nerves are raging, and he’s making bad decisions. They’re all making bad decisions. 

His heart breaks a little when van de Beek fires the ball into the back of Hugo’s net, and stands over it screaming as he watches it fly in. The passion, the nostalgia, the disappointment- the all wash over Jan at once.

It happens when he’s up for a corner. Jan’s ready now, he’s ready to fight. He’s ready to play for the crest on his chest. He knows chances like this are his best shot at scoring, changing the match. Fire in his eyes, he takes a leap-

There’s a crack, blinding pain, warmth spilling over his face. Jan crouches to the ground and rolls over onto his back. Tears stream from his eye, down his cheek. Or is is it blood? He can’t see out of his left eye, just a vague silver blur where there should be faces. _No no no no no._

He’s sure his nose is snapped clean off. He lies there helplessly, waiting, as he hears people swarm around him. They’re touching his face, pouring clear liquid onto him and it stings. It stings so bad he jerks from the ground. There’s blood in his mouth, running down the back of his throat. He lies there just waiting for it to be over.

_It’ll be over soon. Fifteen minutes and I’ll be running around on the field and this will be forgotten._ They’re sitting him up now. His nose is throbbing. The slickness of blood on his tongue makes him gag and he leans over to spit it out. There’s still blood on his shirt, on his hands. He’ll need a new kit. Jan lurches to his feet, lets the doctors walk him around the field, lets them shield him from the crowd as he crouches in the tunnel to pull on his fresh, stark white kit.

“I’m fine,” Jan repeats it like a mantra. “I’m fine, I’m fine.” To Pochettino, to the doctor, to the ref. _Why won’t they believe him?_ Again to the doctor, one more time to the ref. Frustration is building in his chest. He just wants to get back out there on the field. They’re down one goal and one man. He needs to get back out there. _Needs_ to. 

He feels a hand on his arm and catches the words, “good to go,” around the ringing in his ears. He’s running back on to the field, applause raining down on him, burying him like swarming flies. 

Jan feels heavy, like his face is wrapped in fuzzy gauze. _What the hell did they put on me,_ he thinks. But when he touches his face, there’s nothing there. Eriksen plays the ball back to Onana to restart the game. _Wait,_ Jan wants to yell. _I’m not ready yet._ But the breath he drawsmakes him dizzy, so he immediately shuts his mouth. _I just need to run it off._

Onana’s about to launch the ball down the field and Jan knows he needs to be about ten meters to the left, but he can’t move his feet. He can’t shake the silver scrubbing into the sides of his vision, tiny bubbles clouding his mind. Heat prickling up the back of his neck, curling around his ears, surging into his cheeks. Pressure in his nose. Buzzing in his ears. Rising. The top of his head- _Shit._

_Shit._

He raises a leaden hand and drags his feet one by one to the side of the field, shaking his head. He’s not going to make it. His collar is too tight. He’s definitely going to throw up. Ten steps, nine, eight, seven…

He makes it to the sideline and rests his hands on his knees in relief. _I just need to. Oh no._ He heaves, drooling. _Shit._

He tries to stand, tries to tell Pochettino, Eriksen, the ref, someone, he’s fine. But he’s not fine. He’s staring at the floor again, only semi-aware his eyes are watering, semi-aware of his throat muscles tightening, of the medic at his side, Pochettino’s hand around his waist, wait, is he falling? Is he-

After that, all he can feel is the drag of his toes against the turf as he floats out of the stadium. 

 

 

Jan’s vision starts edging back in after they turn the corner and head towards the locker room. He takes a few steps on his own, his spikes clicking on the linoleum floor. 

“What’s happening? Have we equalized?” Jan sputters.

“Shhh, Jan, relax,” says the man to his left. Jan’s got his arm around the man’s neck. There’s another one on his other side, he realizes. They’re staring at him, faces grave with professional concern. He recognizes them from the training ground. He thinks they’re called Alan and Geoff.

“No, I need to know, tell me whether we’ve-“ he says, pulling the hand- Geoff’s?- away from his neck. Suddenly, he can’t stand to be touched for another second.

“Jan,” says Alan sharply. “You need to calm down, now.” 

He lets them check his eyes, his reflexes, his balance. Going through the motions he knows so well.

“Well, Jan, you’re not showing any symptoms yet. You’ve scored normally on all the tests,” Alan says, turning the page.

“Right,” says Jan, bitterly. He spits a bit of blood into the bowl next to him, and makes to stand up. He’s embarrassed and ashamed, and doesn’t care about the state of his nose, or even the state of his brain. He certainly doesn’t care that Alan’s name might not be Alan.

“Wait, I’m not done with you,” Alan says. “You’re still on concussion watch. You’ll need to avoid looking at screens, you shouldn’t exert yourself for the next-“ Jan tunes the man, whatever his name is, out. He’s been a professional athlete for most of his life. He’s familiar with concussion protocol. 

“Right, can I shower now?” Jan says impatiently.

“No, sorry,” Geoff cuts in, shaking his head.

“Excuse me?” Jan is spitting with rage. 

“You can’t get that wet. I’ll have to help you,” he’s barely looking at Jan, turning a page on the report he’s holding. Jan’s irrationally annoyed by the lack of eye contact.

“Fine,” says Jan, and he lets Geoff walk him down to the shower, feeling vaguely like a muzzled puppy being led to a bath it _really_ doesn’t want. 

 

 

Jan returns to the locker room just fifteen minutes later, but with considerably less dignity. Hedresses himself, wishing he could have had literally anyone else’s hands in his hair, scrubbing his scalp.

“Can I please go now?” Jan says desperately.

Geoff sighs. “We can’t send you home alone. Is there someone who can take you?”

_Paulo can take me,_ he thinks. But Jan is exhausted and humiliated. He’s been poked and prodded, and he thinks he’ll probably shrivel up and die the second Paulo sets those ice blue eyes on him. 

“We can have someone from the club-“ he says, looking at Jan uncertainly.

“No,” says Jan. “Toby will do it.” 

“Fine, very good. Now you need to relax as much as you can until the game ends. I’d give it about twenty minutes.” 

Jan says nothing, and kicks the side of the table angrily. 

 

 

The seconds tick by monotonously. Jan takes the ice pack off his nose. His fingers are itching to grab his phone, check the score, but just in case he decides he better not. 

“Jan,” it’s Toby’s voice, terse, startling him from his thoughts.

“What was the score?”

“Jan,” Toby says a little more forcefully. “Are you ok?”

“ _What_ was the score?” Jan says again, edge hardening in his voice.

Toby sighs. “1-0.” Jan hums in response. “Sissoko, he came on for you.”

“I _know,”_ Jan hisses nastily.

Toby gives him an exasperated look, before continuing. “He really turned the game around. But look, Jan, I-“ His eyes are wide now, apology spilling from the grey depths.

Jan covers Toby’s hand with his, lets his eyes flutter shut. “I know,” he says, and this time his voice is gentle. Toby’s silent for a moment.

“It’s not a bad score. We can come back,” Toby says. 

Jan opens his eyes. “I know,” he says. Even though that would mean knocking Ajax out of the competition. He doesn’t even have to ask- he knows Toby feels the same way. 

“They’ll underestimate us,” he says.

“Yeah,” says Jan. Toby stands. 

“The doctor told me you said I’d uh, drive you home,” he says. Jan nods.

There’s movement outside the glass windows. They both look up, startled. It’s Paulo, standing at the far window, arms crossed over his chest, an inscrutable look on his face. Jan drags his eyes back to Toby’s just in time to see his eyebrows fly to his hairline.

“I’m just going to head to the locker room, get our things, I’ll be right back,” Toby says, and he hurries from the room, clicking of his cleats following him out the door.

Jan’s heart twists hopefully in his chest. _Paulo’s here for me?_ he wonders, but he barely has time to question whether Paulo’s going to come in before Toby’s fingers close viselike around his wrist. 

Jan watches Toby’s knuckles turn white through the window, watches the expression on Paulo’s face falter. Jan winces as Toby leans in, jawline hard, and says something that makes Paulo’s features crease in bewilderment. Then they both turn and walk away, leaving Jan all alone. 

 

 

Pochettino comes by while Toby’s gone. He says everything a manager is supposed to say, “ _are you feeling ok?_ ” “ _it’s not your fault,_ ” and “ _you’ll come back stronger._ ” But it doesn’t make Jan feel any better. He can’t tell whether Pochettino is disappointed in him or not. The man’s already thinking ahead, focused on the next result.

Pochettino leaves Jan sitting on the metal table swinging his legs. He wonders whether Pochettino would have gone for that ball in his day, and decides that yes, he probably would have. _Pochettino never won anything either,_ his traitorous brain supplies.

 

 

Jan doesn’t greet Toby when he gets back. They walk through the joint section in almost complete silence, save for the terse answers Jan gives to the small contingent of Belgian press.

“I’m fine,” he says.

“Nothing’s broken,” he repeats.

“No concussion.” He can see in their eyes they don’t want to believe him. 

He doesn’t say a word to Toby until they’re on the road.

“What did you say to him?” Jan says quietly. 

“Who?” says Toby, eyes fixed on the road.

“Toby.” Jan musters as much venom as he possibly can. 

Toby looks over at him, face stone cold. “Nothing,” he says.

They don’t speak for the rest of the ride. Toby unlocks his door, settles him on his couch, and stand back a couple yards, awkwardly. Jan leans his head back, and closes his eyes slowly.

“I can stay,” Toby says. Jan doesn’t respond.

“Do you want ice? Water?” There’s concern hinting in his voice. Jan jerks his head noncommittally, and Toby disappears from the room.

He returns with a glass of water, an icepack, and the same anxious demeanor as before. _It doesn’t suit him,_ Jan thinks. 

“Jan-“

“Go, please,” he says, voice rough. 

Toby lingers for a minute, just long enough for Jan to start to feel bad. Finally he leaves, and Jan has nothing to distract him from the throbbing pressure in his nose and the fact that Paulo’s not there.

 

 

Jan sits on his couch alone, ice pack back on his nose and lump in his throat. He feels absolutely horrible. He’s alone, and any perspective he might have had before is gone. The moment replays in his mind, again and again. _Why did I go for that? What if I’d been able to stay in the game?_

It feels like a lifetime ago that he’d driven Toby up the wall with his matchday nerves. It feels even longer since he’d sat at his kitchen table, hopeful that if he played his cards right, he’d get to take care of Paulo after the game. 

Paulo. He hadn’t seen him on his way out, and he doesn’t know whether he should call him now. _If you need anything, you call me,_ Paulo had said.

Yeah, sure, but maybe he just meant sexual needs. Jan doesn’t really feel up to that. And he doesn’t know whether Paulo’s willing, or even able, to provide the comfort he’s craving.

_Mom,_ he thinks.

Come to think of it, he really should have called his mom immediately, just to let her know he wasn’t dead. He hasn’t checked, but he’s probably got a bunch of missed calls. He tells himself it’s because his phone is on silent, and he’s not allowed to look at screens. It’s definitely _not_ because he doesn’t want to know whether Paulo’s number is among them.

He flicks on the sound and briefly glances down at the screen. See? _My head feels fine,_ he grumbles internally. But even so, he keeps it quick. As expected, there are about seven missed calls from his mother. There are a bunch of messages from his teammates, and a bunch of news alerts. 

Some of the news alerts are about him, and normally he’d be amused. But he’s pretty certain he didn’t see Paulo’s name in the barrage of notifications. His heart sinks like a stone. _Maybe I wasn’t really looking,_ he tells himself, even though he knows Paulo’s name would have caused that little flicker of something in his chest if he’d just caught the letters in the corner of his eye. 

He slides open one of the calls from his mother and presses dial.

“Hi, Mom,” he says. 

“How are you feeling?” she says. She sounds like she’s trying really hard not to overdo the concern, which Jan appreciates. 

“I’m ok, Mom. Took a big knock to the nose. Broke the skin, but nothing else.”

“Oh Jan, sweetie, are you ok? Do you have people looking after you?”

“I’m _fine_ , Mom.” But he doesn’t have anyone looking after him, and he’s not sure why, but this time it doesn’t feel fine. 

“I wish I could be there for you, I know I should be used to it at this point, but it’s still hard, seeing you like that,” she trails off. He knows how scary it looked, and he feels even guiltier for not calling her earlier.

“I’m sorry, I should have called you sooner. I’m not supposed to look at my phone,” he says. He’s shocked at how much it feels like a lie.

“Do you need anything, honey?” _I need you to come take care of me,_ he thinks. God, what the fuck is wrong with him? He’s had injuries before, and he’s always gotten through them alone. 

“I just want my nose to feel like a nose again,” he mumbles. His mother hums in sympathy.

It’s not all he wants, though. He wants someone to keep him company, he wants someone to care. He’s irrationally angry his Mom isn’t here, and he’s frustrated with himself because he knows he’s being ridiculous. 

“Oh Jan,” she says. He can hear the emotion in her voice, and it makes his chest ache. He doesn’t want to hang up the phone, but he doesn’t know what else to do.

“Mom, I have to go,” he says, just barely keeping his voice from cracking.

“Alright, you take care now.” She pauses for a second, and Jan doesn’t hang up. 

“Jan, are you sure you’re alright?” Jan’s throat is tight now, and he has to wait a minute before he answers.

“I’m fine, Mom. I’ll talk to you later, ok? Love you,” he exhales, waiting for her response before he ends the call.

“I love you, too.” 

Jan sits there for a minute, feeling miserable and homesick as he did when he was barely a teenager at Ajax. _Maybe I’m just hungry,_ he thinks. He knows he should get up and eat something, but the stairs seem so far away, and he’s suddenly so tired.

_Toby would have brought you food if you hadn’t kicked him out,_ his brain supplies unhelpfully. He thinks about calling Toby back, but then he remembers Toby’s fingers circling Paulo’s wrist, turning Paulo away.

_If you need anything, you call me._

Paulo _had_ said that, all those nights ago. Back when Jan’s nose was still intact. He’d seemed to mean it then, so it couldn’t hurt to call him, right? 

He scrolls quickly through his contacts and hits dial before he has too much time to question what Paulo considers “need.” His heart is racing, and he feels more and more pathetic with each subsequent ring. He desperately tries to convince himself this is a good idea, that Paulo had meant it.

Paulo’s phone rings out. Jan hits voicemail with an unfriendly beep and an unwelcome feeling in his chest. “ _Hi, this is Paulo. Please leave a message after the tone.”_

_“_ Uh,” Jan starts. “Hi Paulo, this is Jan. You probably already know that. I uh, I know I said I’d take care of you after the game but-” 

Oh god, why is he choking up again? First on the phone with his mother, now this. He swallows the lump in his throat and dumbly wonders whether there’s something wrong with his tear ducts.

“Uh, I guess I could use a little help myself, as it turns out.” He gives a shaky laugh. _Shit, I’m so alone,_ he thinks. 

“But, you obviously have plans, or something, and uh,” Jan’s words are coming out in a rush now, he can’t stop them. 

“Give me a call when you get back. Or- when you get this. If you want to. Reschedule that is. Or if, well,” he trails off lamely after a particularly strong throb of his nose.

“Bye,” he says.

Dejectedly, he lets his hand drop from his ear, and lets his phone slide back into the crevice of the cushions. 

_Ok,_ he thinks. _This is fine._ Normally he’d pinch the bridge of his nose, knead his eyes with thepalms of his hands, but that’s currently out of the question. So he just runs his hands through his hair and sits there, frustration and loneliness boiling in his chest.

Eventually, he peels himself from the cushions and drags himself upstairs on unsteady doe legs. He microwaves a dinner the nutritionist sent home with him last week. She’d told him this dinner would be healthy, balanced and flavor-packed. He can’t vouch for the first two, but he definitely can’t taste a thing. Maybe he’s having a shock response. That would explain the fainting, at least. _Do shock patients get emotional?_ he wonders. Somehow that doesn’t fit with the numb, cottony feeling on his tongue.

He starts to take out his phone to google shock symptoms, then realizes he’s not supposed to look at screens. _I’ll just go downstairs and watch some TV,_ he thinks. 

He gets all the way downstairs before realizing the television is also a screen, so he can’t do that either. He yells in frustration and hurls his phone across the room. It doesn’t break, just bounces harmlessly against the plush rug and lands in the corner. He’s relieved it hasn’t broken, but a bit pissed that hadn’t brought more satisfaction.

He throws himself down onto the couch, too, grabs his favorite throw from where it’s draped over the back, and cocoons himself deep inside. He drifts off, not quite asleep but not quite awake either. It’s a sign of his anguish that he lets himself imagine Paulo’s warm arms wrapped around him, fingers stroking his hair, whispering in his ear that everything will be alright. 

 

 

“Hey,” says a voice, cutting through Jan’s stupor like butter. Jan would recognize that voice anywhere.

“Paulo,” he sighs. “Am I dreaming?”

There’s a fond chuckle, and Jan opens his eyes. Paulo’s there, in front of him, wearing that white Spurs t-shirt that fits Paulo so much better than it fits Jan, and a pair of grey joggers. He reaches down and grabs Jan’s socked foot. Jan shivers. 

“No, I don’t think so,” he says, giving it a little shake. There’s a smile growing on Jan’s face, and he couldn’t stop it if he tried. 

“Did you get my message?” he knows he should be a bit embarrassed at his rambling, embarrassed he admitted he needs Paulo here. But he just can’t muster the feeling, because Paulo _is_ here.

“I did,” Paulo says. “I was driving. I was already on my way.” He’s still holding Jan’s foot and Jan’s heart is swelling several sizes in his chest.

“I brought you something,” he says, finally letting go of Jan’s foot. “It’s what took me so long to get here.” Jan tears his eyes away from Paulo’s face for long enough to see Paulo reaching into a black plastic bag for a small, square box. He takes it out delicately, carefully, and passes it to Jan. 

He’d recognize that gold sticker anywhere. He lifts the lid.

“You’ve already eaten dinner, yeah?” Paulo asks. Jan doesn’t answer, because Paulo’s brought Jan a chocolate cupcake from his favorite bakery in London, and there’s suddenly a lump in Jan’s throat bigger than the one on his nose. He’s pretty sure his face is getting the message across just fine, fucked up nose and all.

“Toby told me,” says Paulo, eyes bright and crinkly. “ _He likes Villa Italia. Chocolate,”_ in a disturbingly passable imitation of Toby’s angry, low voice.

Jan laughs, but it comes out more like a hiccup.

“I’ve never felt so threatened in my life,” Paulo laughs. He takes the box from Jan.

“Are you ok?” asks Paulo, eyes full of concern.

“Yeah,” says Jan, rolling his eyes. “Concussion watch. But I haven’t got one.”

“You can’t know that,” says Paulo. Jan wants to argue, but he knows Paulo’s probably right.

“Whatever,” Jan says. He hates how much he sounds like a whiny kid right now. “I just want to curl up on my couch and watch television.”

“Ah, but now you have me,” says Paulo cockily. If anyone else had said that to Jan, he would have laughed right in their face. But Paulo’s smiling _that_ smile, and he’s taking the cupcake out of the box, so instead Jan swoons, and budges over on the couch to make a little room. Paulo sits right next to him, thigh pressed close to Jan’s.

“Open up,” he says.

Jan guides Paulo’s hand toward his mouth, and takes a bite. It’s _so_ good, probably better because Paulo brought it. 

He’s definitely got frosting all over his face. Paulo reaches up and wipes it off with the palm of his hand, laughing. He holds the rest of the cupcake out for Jan to eat, and Jan scarfs it down, pressing his thumb into Paulo’s rough palm. 

“Oh, you missed some,” Paulo says, holding his fingers out. 

“ _Smooth motherfucker,”_ Jan mutters under his breath, rolling his eyes. Paulo laughs, and Jan sucks his fingers into his mouth anyway, letting his eyes flutter shut while he licks the chocolate from Paulo’s fingers.

When he opens his eyes, Paulo’s face is only inches away. He slides his fingers out of Jan’s mouth carefully, and leans forward. 

_It’s happening,_ Jan thinks, stupidly, and then Paulo’s lips meet his in a kiss even sweeter than the cupcake. Paulo brings a hand to the back of Jan’s neck, rests his thumb on his cheek, and lowers him to the cushions.

His hand is on the small of his back, holding Jan delicately, but close enough that Jan can feel Paulo’s heart beating fast, like he wants this as much as Jan does. And god, he never wants to wait this long to kiss Paulo again.

He can tell Paulo’s being a bit careful because of his nose, and he wishes Paulo would just let go, press him down into the couch never let him up. Jan could just tell him, but then he’d have to break the kiss. He sinks his teeth into Paulo’s bottom lip and hopes he gets the message.

Paulo doesn’t get the message, just keeps kissing Jan softly, totally unbothered by the fact that Jan’s falling apart under his touch. It’s ridiculous, because he can feel Paulo’s erection pressing into his thigh. He rubs his leg against it, searching for a response. He’s not surprised that he doesn’t get one- he already knows Paulo has the self-control of a small army.

“Paulo,” Jan whines eventually, tugging at his waistband.

“Shhh, you need to rest, you’re concussed,” whispers Paulo against Jan’s lips.

“I do not have a concussion,” Jan grumbles. “I’m just on watch.”

“You _might_ have a concussion, though,” Paulo corrects. He brings his lips to Jan’s left cheek, then his right.

“I _don’t._ ” He sticks his bottom lip out in a pout, and opens his eyes to glare at Paulo.

“Compromise, Jan. You can’t watch TV, but I can still put on a show,” says Paulo cockily,sitting up, scooting back from Jan on the couch.

“You’re horrible,” Jan groans at the joke.

“Maybe,” Paulo shrugs, looking totally unbothered by Jan’s lack of appreciation. Paulo lets his eyes fall closed and grasps the bulge in the front of his joggers. Jan slides a finger under his collar and sits up to get a better view.

Paulo squeezes himself over the fabric. His legs are splayed out, his back all the way against the arm of the couch opposite Jan. They’re only touching at the ankles, and it’s barely enough.

Jan watches Paulo relaxing into his own touch, palm pressing into the stretched fabric. He canjust see the tip of Paulo’s dick peeking out, and he’s surprised at how much that makes him want to wrap his lips around the spot where the waistband is digging into the soft skin.

Paulo pauses, hitches his thumbs under his waistband, and drags it halfway down his thighs. Jan traces a toe up the outline of Paulo’s calf, anticipation burning in his gut. His dick is beautiful, of course, just like the rest of him- big enough Jan’s sure it would hit all the right spots if it were inside him, but not so big he’d be scared (and _Jesus_ , Jan’s really going to have to examine that particular thought later, sometime when Paulo’s not exposed and panting in front of him).

“Here,” says Paulo, holding out his hand. “Spit.” Jan leans over and drools into Paulo’s hand. Paulo groans when he brings it to his cock.

“Do you want me to tell you what I’ve been thinking about?” Paulo asks, breath hitching as he starts to work himself with Jan’s spit. 

“Fuck, yes.”

“Language, Jan,” says Paulo, tutting at him. Jan feels a little thrill dance up the back of his spine. 

“I’ve been thinking about the last time I was here,” Paulo says. He pushes his t-shirt up his stomach with his free hand, and Jan pines after the thin trail of dark hair that snakes up to his belly button. “Having you like that on the table, _Jesus.”_ His eyes flutter shut for a second. 

“You made me so hard,” he breaths. “I couldn’t wait until I got home.”

“I touched myself in the car,” he gasps a little bit. “Sitting right there in your driveway. Just like this,” and he picks up the pace a little. Paulo’s head is thrown back, toned stomach exposed, cock wet with Jan’s saliva in his big hand.

“Fuck, Paulo, that’s so hot.” Jan palms the front of his shorts, nose totally forgotten. 

“Jan Vertonghen, clenching down on my fingers, _fuck,_ the noises you made,” he swipes his thumb over the tip of his dick.

“And then, when I was getting close,” Paulo says raggedly. “I imagined how that would feel. You coming like that on my dick.” Jan can’t believe Paulo can talk like this so easily. It’s driving him crazy. He slides his hand into his shorts and squeezes himself to relieve some of the tension.

“Yeah, just like that,” Paulo whispers.

Paulo’s hand has slowed until it’s barely moving, and Jan can tell he’s really close to the edge. He levels his head, and stares at Jan through hooded eyes, mouth slightly parted.

“Ah, and then I-“ Paulo tightens his fingers and inhales sharply. “I came all over myself.” 

He gets in one more stroke before he starts to come. “Ah, _Jan,_ ” he gasps, squirming and working himself messily through the orgasm.

He’s even more beautiful like this, cheeks flushed, chest heaving, come spilt across his hands and stomach. Jan’s mesmerized, can’t stop himself from crawling across the couch, bringing his lips to Paulo’s. He feels it in his bones when Paulo hums in appreciation.

“You touched yourself,” Paulo says smugly, breaking the kiss. “You were only supposed to watch.” His voice is low and rumbly, and not really mad at all.

“Couldn’t help it,” says Jan, moving in to kiss Paulo again. Paulo moves away before Jan’s lips find their target. 

“Paulo-” he starts.

“Shhh, just relax. I’m taking care of you.” He leans forward to pull a few tissues out of the box on the table, wiping up his hands and the mess on his stomach. 

Jan can’t help but take a minute to wonder at his luck. The last time he used those tissues he was sitting in almost the exact same spot, coming desperately with Paulo’s name on his lips. 

“Sit back,” Paulo says, and Jan can’t do anything but fall back into the cushions.

“But I said I’d take care of you after the game,” he says, a little bit breathlessly.

“Are you complaining?” Paulo slides off the couch to kneel between Jan’s legs. He’s got his hands on Jan’s knees, and his thumbs are rubbing little circles into Jan’s inner thighs, so no, he’s definitely not complaining.

“No,” he swallows. Paulo tugs twice at his shorts and he wiggles out of them. His erection springs free and slaps back against his stomach. It feels good, _really good._

“Then stop speaking,” says Paulo. 

Jan can’t for the life of him think of a reason not to do as Paulo says. Not when his cock is hard and heavy, and Paulo’s beautiful head is poised just between his legs.

They stay there, frozen for a minute, until Paulo digs his palms into Jan’s thighs, and slides his mouth over the tip of Jan’s cock.

Jan sighs in relief and buries his fingers in Paulo’s shiny black hair. Paulo flicks his tongue out and licks once, twice, and then pulls back, leaving Jan’s chest heaving.

“Eyes closed,” Paulo snaps, glaring. Jan wants to laugh but he also doesn’t want Paulo to stop, so he shuts his eyes right away. 

And then Paulo’s mouth is back, taking him all the way in, licking and sucking him toward release. Jan’s so wound up he can already feel himself throbbing against Paulo’s tongue. He’d probably be embarrassed if it weren’t for the show Paulo had put on.

He bites his lip and lets the orgasm start to build in his stomach. He wants to tell Paulo to slow down, but the friction and the heat, and the emotion of the evening send him over the edge before he even realizes what’s happening. Paulo’s fingernails dig into his hips, holding him back as he bucks and whimpers and comes into Paulo’s warm mouth.

He opens his eyes in time to see Paulo swallowing and looking up at him, a trickle of come across his cheek. Jan leans forward to wipe it off with the pad of his thumb. 

“Sorry,” he breaths. “I should have-“

Paulo wipes the back of his mouth with his hand and grimaces.

“Stop apologizing, Jan,” he says, simply. He steps out of his pants swiftly and drops them on the floor. 

He vaguely wonders what Paulo is doing, but he doesn’t ask. The orgasm has left his brain fuzzy and disoriented. He hopes it’s not a concussion symptom, but if it is, he thinks Paulo’s mouth was probably worth it. 

Paulo lies back on the couch, throws his legs easily over Jan’s, and stares at him expectantly.

Jan stares back dumbly, trying to work out what Paulo wants.

“Are you going to let me hold you now, or not?” He holds out his arms. _Oh_. Jan doesn’t know if this is just a post-sex thing, so he lies down carefully across Paulo’s chest and tries not to think about how good it feels when Paulo wraps his arms around his shoulders.

Paulo starts to slide his hands up and down Jan’s back, fingers gentle on the baby hairs of his neck, combing higher and higher until they’re wedged firmly in his hair. He can feel the tips of Paulo’s fingers soft against his skull, mapping out his head and finding all the dips and ridges. It feels so nice, Jan could cry. 

Paulo keeps up the gentle stroking of Jan’s hair, and eventually the rise and fall of his chest lulls him straight to sleep.

 

 

Jan wakes several hours later. It’s dark, and he’s very warm. Paulo’s arms are still wrapped tight around his shoulders. Jan fidgets a bit and yawns. He can tell Paulo’s awake too, because he starts kneading his thumbs into the tight spots just in between Jan’s shoulder blades. His heart aches, because the sex is over, and Paulo will probably leave soon.

“So you’ll probably want to be going, yeah?” It slips out before Jan can stop it. What he meant to say was something like, _can you stay, please?_ But he’s still half asleep, and he’s very much not used to this.

“Hm?” Paulo’s whole body vibrates and Jan snuggles in closer.

“I mean, you, we-“ Jan stops talking. It’s not doing him any favors right now.

“If you want me here, I don’t want to leave,” says Paulo.

“Oh,” say Jan. Even in the darkness, he can tell Paulo’s looking at him, waiting for him to say more.

“Yeah,” he says, eventually. “Yeah that’d be nice.” He smiles into the divot in Paulo’s chest. Jan never wants Paulo to stop doing whatever he’s doing with his thumbs right now. In fact, he never even wants to leave this couch. 

It’s several minutes before Paulo speaks again, and by that time, Jan’s pretty sure he’s melted into Paulo’s skin.

“Jan,” Paulo says, voice just above a whisper. “Can I ask you something?” Jan nods, and Paulo shivers a little at the scrape of stubble against his chest.

“Earlier, before I came by, did you think,” Paulo pauses there, searching for words.

Jan sighs, doesn’t open his eyes. His face still hurts, and he doesn’t want to ruin the moment by talking about this now. He doesn’t really want to talk about anything. He’s incredibly embarrassed about that voicemail, and the pathetic state of his feelings as he’d sat on the couch, alone. 

“No, Jan, look at me.” Reluctantly, Jan gazes up into Paulo’s eyes. _As beautiful as ever,_ he notes.

“Did you think I wouldn’t be here?” 

Jan doesn’t know how he could be anything other than honest when Paulo’s looking at him like that. Soft, careful, the comfort Jan’s been waiting for.

“I saw you in the hallway,” he starts. “You left, and then, you didn’t text. I didn’t know if,” he trails off.

“You didn’t know if what?” Paulo prompts. He brings a gentle hand to Jan cheeks.

“I thought maybe when you said, you know, _if you need anything,”_ he mumbles, _“_ you were only talking about,” _God, it’s hard to speak when Paulo’s thumb is swiping over his cheekbone like that._ “You know, sex things.”

Paulo looks like he wants to laugh, but he doesn’t.

“Jan, I want to take care of you.” He says it like it’s obvious, smiling at Jan widely, eyes crinkling in a way that makes his heart skip a few beats.

Jan is 32 years old, and by all accounts he can take care of himself. He’s never been one to seek out comfort in other people. He’s never, not once in his entire life, admitted to needing help. He always thought he liked it that way- being on his own, in total control, fending for himself. 

But right now, his heart is bursting. After the events of the last few weeks, and particularly the last several hours, all he wants is for Paulo to take care of him. It’s _Paulo_. Paulo, who brought him a cupcake. Paulo, with his wide, beautiful grin, the little wrinkles by his eyes that make Jan feel like he might be high, his warm, steady hands and magical fingers. Paulo.

“Is that alright?” Paulo asks. He noses Jan’s cheek, kisses his jaw.

Yes. _Yes,_ it’s more than alright. But Jan’s experiencing an onslaught of emotions and he can’t quite find his voice. He just squeezes his eyes shut and nods into Paulo’s chest.

 

 

Later, once Jan’s led Paulo up the two flights of stairs to his bedroom, once Paulo’s padded back down to fill two glasses of water, Jan rests his head on Paulo’s shoulder and traces patterns through the dark hairs on his chest. 

“Aren’t you tired?” Paulo murmurs, breath tickling Jan’s forehead in the dark.

“No,” Jan whispers back, even though his eyelids are drooping, lashes brushing Paulo’s collarbone in a dead giveaway. “I like being awake right now.”

“Jan, go to sleep,” Paulo whispers.

“If you need anything, I’ll be right here.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Concussions are serious business, folks. You should probably not exert yourself if you have one. 
> 
> Anyway, that's all for this story. These guys still have a bit more to work out, so stay tuned for the next work!


End file.
